


A man of forty.

by skinnylittlered



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Public Hand Jobs, Public Masturbation, Public Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5084404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is to be serviced whatever the circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A man of forty.

In our quest of finding an intimate enough spot to gush about the amorous feelings we mutually nurture for the other without the inconvenience of ethical socialisation which is a requirement in Tom’s field of praxis, as networking, be it either for the sake of remaining in his fans good graces or making amiable acquaintance with potential work partners is what keeps his image untainted and, thus, more rather than less agreeable future prospects on the way, we come by a vacated bench surrounded by thick flora, thick, and far enough from the lake for our rendezvous not to be suffering interruption, since, on such torrid days as this one, the population has a tendency of migrating towards places more aquatically endowed, leaving the rest favourably bereft for couples without the slightest will or good-humour to be in the company of any other but that who is the focal point of their general attention.

I quite literally bumped into Tom one majestically bright spring noon, as I was erratically scampering in high hopes of catching the underground, a flurry of oversized scarves, loose cashmere, and a bag that I kept having to adjust, for it, as most pretty but hardly practical recipients do when their weight exceeds the optimal one, kept sliding off my shoulder, and which, of course, much impeded with my already debilitated sprint; as skilled as one may be at casually strutting around in pumps, they ought to know it hardly has anything to do with running – that proves to be an entirely different affair.

Tom just so happened to be standing in an unfortunately nonstrategic spot when I landed face first into his back, hearing nothing of the accumulated gasp of our fellow passengers, but his surprised ‘oomph’ and then the annoyed cussing as he turned to face me and probably give me a proper scolding. He didn’t get to that, first of all because my apologising wouldn’t spare him a chance to talk and, second, as he bashfully told me a couple of weeks later, because he thought I was cute, which, in all fairness, I am, but I can’t expect my appearance to amend for my imbecility at all times, and especially not with strangers.

My looks are what prompted our conversation. My wit is what kept him engaged even after our physical satiation, that very same day, when, hurry indefinitely sent to hell, I ended up in his bed.

Well, wit and the fact, as he was soon to find out, that I take cock like a champ.

The harsh sunlight does his aging face no justice. A man of forty is no longer in possession of taut skin, but instead a rough, irregularly pigmented visage, affected not only by his ever nearing mid-life point of existence, but the constant movement his work entails, rapid changes of expression that prompt deep marring of the tissue. A man of forty is deprived of the vivacity of those in their prime, abundant of youthful buoyancy, of that repletion of eroticism that pumps sheer fervidity, heating the blood in their veins and their heads altogether. A man of forty neither asks for permission, nor attempts coaxing some form of consent. The experience of past happenings has taught him that, despite my verbally demanding him to stop, the body moulding wilfully into his, tense with arousal, but compliant to his unspoken commands, is silently screaming for more of what he’s abruptly – and in a park of all places! – decided that I needed, following my physical requirement with scholarly diligence, proof of which the self-assured smirk pressed into my hair as I nuzzle the crook of his neck, helplessly stifling my pathetic gasps.

“Tom, not here.”

There’s no reply other than the flick of what I presume to be his middle finger over the not yet pushed aside crotch of my knickers, and I try to gently push him away by the chest, but his free hand circles me, effectively restraining my upper limbs from any unwanted movement.

“Tom-“

“Be quiet, Hannah, or, so help me god, I will bend you over this very bench and have my way with you at the risk of making it to the front page in tomorrow’s paper and possibly ruining my career in the process.”

He, then, hoists me up so I’m sitting in his lap, legs forced apart by his knees, granting easier access to his invasive fingers, making their way underneath the soaked lace between my thighs. Outdoor recreations in any way derived from a sexual nature have never in my life, ever since my arguable coming of age, until my womanly maturity, presented themselves as a particularity of my carnal desires, and neither has being assaulted – least of all by someone whom I’m supposed to trust –, and that would insurmountably earn the felon a rather vicious and very much tangible display of the gravest displeasure from their truly, but now, held against the firm chest of my much older lover, I want this. I hushedly moan that I don’t, but every fibre in my body is tremulous, weak, and loud simultaneously, in a collective plea for more, for invasion.

“Now be a good girl and stay quiet. Can you do that for me, baby?”

He seems to take my vague whimper as an affirmative, because, with immediate effect, the tip of his forefinger teases the overflowing slit formed by my labia, spreading the hot moisture all over the reachable surface of skin, then sliding it in, right on the tender swell of my clitoris, testing my reactions to his merciless attentions. I inadvertently spasm, and his already narrow grip tightens even more, straining me to him, nearly forcing the air out of my lungs. The tears that have formed at the corners of my eyes are now heavily sliding off my face and, with my head fallen back on his shoulder, I am sniffling as he stretches me open with his lean digits and rubs me with the back of his hand at the same time.

“That good, huh?”

A man of forty will take delight in your gratification more than in his own, for the selfless pleasuring, he’s learned, is stimulant in itself.

A man of forty will fingerfuck you in a park, in an elevator, in the bathroom of a pub, will fingerfuck you till you come so good he has to hold you, waiting for you to come to your senses, then kiss your forehead and laugh off the adoration in your eyes as he squeezes you to him, gently rocking you and humming whatever was left suck in his head that he’s heard earlier on the radio.

Well, at least my man of forty does.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes: As a short, but unquestionably relevant PSA, Red posts Tom Hiddleston porn while watching Looney Tunes. 
> 
> But Red, you may say, how come you’re updating so early? 
> 
> Well *chuckles with faux-modesty* it’s not that early. More like, a liiiiiiittle, liiiiittle, tiny bit early.
> 
> (feel fee to congratulate me on being early *shit-eating grin*)
> 
> WLCOME TO THE NEW FOLLOWER, @tha-thais-barbosa ! GREETINGS TO YOU, NEW PERSON ON THIS BLOG, THANKS FOR THE FOLLOW AND HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE RIDE!
> 
> Also, new thing happening around here. The lovely @antyc67 (fucking mentioning won’t work. I’ve tried HTML, too, and it just won’t fucking work, I’m so pissed off) has asked that I tag her in posts with my Tom Hiddleston writings. I there’s anyone else who’d like to be mentioned, too, please let me know.
> 
> Wonderful feedback on “We need to talk.”, you guys. I am for ever happy and probably in awe at the fact that people actually enjoy my work.
> 
> Thank you for reading, lovelies, and you stay golden! *pumpkin spice lattes for everyone? Idk, I’ve never had one, but always meant to. Maybe this autumn?*


End file.
